Page 47 of The Wulver's Bond
Arran was quiet for a moment. ‘No. He did not deserve that. And I had just murdered his son.’ He gave a heavy sigh and turned his head away from Moss.
‘For a good reason, right?’ Moss prompted.
‘He was a werewolf.’
‘There you go, then.’
‘It was not his fault.’ Arran brought a hand to his muzzle, pinching it to ease some tension there. ‘It is none of their fault, for being born werewolves. But it is certainly mine.’
For once, Moss felt no inclination to try mocking Arran for this. The grief he was feeling was clear, even if his voice was deadpan. There was such a sad droop to his ears and weariness to his eyes.
Moss reached out to stroke some of it away. His fright at hearing Logan’s voice was utterly dwarfed and forgotten by the mere inkling of Arran being in pain. ‘Tell me why.’
Arran nuzzled his palm. Their gazes met, and Moss hoped Arran saw some understanding reflected there.
‘I loved Flòraidh,’ Arran said softly. ‘I met her after I’d already trod this earth for many seasons. I loved humans before her. Loved the way they loved each other, the way they loved the world around them. The way they celebrated the fleetingness of their own lives. Flòraidh burned so very brightly with this love. And she turned all of it onto me, and I was unprepared to be loved so wholly, and unconditionally.’
Arran paused, snorting at his own words. ‘I don’t mean to make it sound as though I had no agency in this. It is not an excuse.’
‘I’m not hearing any excuses yet.’ Moss grazed Arran’s snout with his nose. If he was being honest with himself, he was envious. ‘It sounds like something beautiful.’
Arran brought a palm to Moss’s cheek. His skin was so hard and leathery, yet worn very smooth by time and toil.
‘I thought it was beautiful,’ Arran said. ‘But I did notthink. I owned her in the most absolute of ways… She was hurt, sometimes badly, but she had her own ways of subduing me. It was how we first discovered silver could hurt me.’
Moss dared a smirk. ‘Silver handcuffs, was it?’
To his surprise, Arran chuckled. ‘In a sense.’ Then his brow creased and his mood slumped again. ‘Flòraidh and I had many children, over many years. A great litter, of which I was extremely proud. Some seemed quite human, and others more wolfish. Flòraidh bore them all with great strength until… Well. You said it yourself.’
Moss’s gut twisted, remembering all his earlier, vile taunts. ‘Arran,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Arran, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He pressed his forehead earnestly against Arran’s, wishing he could take back all his stupid mockeries. The Wulver’s arms closed round him.
‘Moss. I don’t need your apology, though if you need my forgiveness, you have it,’ Arran rumbled warmly. He sat up, lifting Moss with him, so he could hold on more tightly with Moss straddling his lap. ‘I do not deserve your compassion for the wrongs I am responsible for.’
‘What fucking wrongs?’ Moss demanded, pulling back. ‘Sounds to me like you fell in love and had a family, you prick. You can’t blame yourself for… forthat!’
‘Perhaps.’ The slightest, sorrowful smile graced Arran’s jaw, then disappeared.
‘So you accidentally bred werewolves,’ Moss continued, waving his hands. ‘Did you even know that could happen?’
‘No,’ Arran admitted. He cast his gaze aside. ‘And for many years we were none the wiser that anything was wrong. My more wolfish offspring were perfectly rational. They went on to have families of their own. Their spawn had more offspring. And by the time the first true werewolf appeared in the bloodline, with all the ravenous, uncontrollable rage that distinguishes them…’
‘It was too late,’ Moss finished.
Arran hung his head. ‘No. I could have… Ishouldhave killed her, the first werewolf, right then. I did not.’
After a brief hesitation, Arran pointed to one of the grass figurines on the shelves. Moss squinted, and recognised a figure he’d asked Arran about previously, which carried a little woven basket.
‘This one is for her,’ Arran said. ‘Because I did kill her, eventually. But only after she had murdered and savaged so many others. And so had her siblings. And her cousins. And nephews. And nieces. If, back then, I had eradicated every oneof them, then perhaps the world would not be blighted by werewolves now.’
Moss appraised the crowd of grass ornaments in a new light. He gestured to them, stepping lightly with his question. ‘Who are the others?’
Arran’s answering growl was like a rumbly sigh. ‘One for each person I have killed. Most of them werewolves. My legacy.’ Arran collapsed backward on the bed, hands splayed over his face.
Moss took a while to digest this. It was the same story he’d heard before, but made different in the telling. ‘They were your family.’
Arran growled savagely—Moss realised he was swiping away a tear. Moss found it jarring. He caught Arran’s hand, gripped it tightly.
